Tonights carol is from Benjamin Britten’s “A Ceremony of Carols.” This little Babe so few days old, Is come to rifle Satans fold; All hell doth at his presence quake, Though he himself for cold do shake; For in this weak, unarmed wise, The gates of hell he will surprise. With tears he fights and wins the field, His naked breast stands for a shield; His battering shot are babish cries, His arrows made of weeping eyes, His martial ensigns cold and need, And feeble flesh his warriors steed. His camp is pitched in a stall, His bulwark but a broken wall; The crib his trench, hay stalks his stakes, Of shepherds he his muster makes; And thus as sure his foe to wound, The Angels trumps alarum sound. My soul with Christ join thou in fight, Stick to the tents that he hath pight; Within his crib is surest ward, This little Babe will be thy guard; If thou wilt foil thy foes with joy, Then flit not from the heavenly boy. —Robert Southwell, 1595 CHRIST IS BORN! GLORIFY HIM!
Posted on: Sun, 28 Dec 2014 00:12:26 +0000
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